{26}
XXII.A little longer on the earthThat aged creature's eyes repose(Though half their light and all their mirthAre gone); and then for ever close.She thinks that something done long sinceIll pleases God:—or why should HeSo long delay to take her henceWho waits His will so lovingly?Whene'er she hears the church-bells tollShe lifts her head, though not her eyes,With wrinkled hands, but youthful soul,Counting her lip-worn rosaries.And many times the weight of yearsFalls from her in her waking dreams:A child her mother's voice she hears:To tend her father's steps she seems.{27}Once more she hears the whispering rainsOn flowers and paths her childhood trod;And of things present nought remainsSave the abiding sense of God.Mary! make smooth her downward way!Not dearer to the young thou artThan her. Make glad her latest May;And hold her, dying, on thy heart.
{28}
XXIII.The hilly region crossed with haste,Its last dark ridge discerned no more,Bright as the bow that spans a wasteShe stood beside her Cousin's door;And spake:—that greeting came from God!Filled with the Spirit from on highSublime the aged Mother stood,And cried aloud in prophecy,—"Soon as thy voice had touched mine earsThe child in childless age conceivedLeaped up for joy! Throughout all yearsBlessed the woman who believed."Type of Electing Love! 'tis thineTo speak God's greeting from the skies!Thy voice we hear: thy Babe divineAt once, like John, we recognise.Within our hearts the second birthExults, though blind as yet and dumb.The child of Grace his hands puts forth,And prophesies of things to come.
{29}
XXIV.Not yet, not yet! the Season singsNot of fruition yet, but hope;Still holds aloft, like balanced wings,Her scales, and lets not either drop.The white ash, last year's skeleton,Still glares, uncheered by leaf or shoot,'Gainst azure heavens, and joy hath noneIn that fresh violet at her foot.Yet Nature's virginal suspenseIs not forgetfulness nor sloth:Where'er we wander, soul and senseDiscern a blindly working growth.Her throne once more the daisy takes,That white star of our dusky earth;And the sky-cloistered lark down-shakesHer passion of seraphic mirth.Twixt barren hills and clear cold skiesShe weaves, ascending high and higher,Songs florid as those traceriesWhich took, of old, their name from fire.Sing! thou that need'st no ardent climeTo sun the sweetness from thy breast;And teach us those delights sublimeWherein ascetic spirits rest!
{30}
XXV.When thou wert born the murmuring worldBoiled on, nor dreamed of things to be,From joy to sorrow madly whirled;—Despair disguised in revelry.A princess thou of David's line;The mother of the Prince of Peace;That hour no royal pomps were thine:The earth alone her boon increase.Before thee poured. September rolledDown all the vine-clad Syrian slopesHer breadths of purple and of gold;And birds sang loud from olive tops.Perhaps old foes, they knew not why,Relented. From a fount long sealedTears rose, perhaps, to Pity's eye:Love-harvests crowned the barren field.{31}The respirations of the year.At least, grew soft. O'er valleys widePine-roughened crags again shone clear;And the great Temple, far descried,To watchers, watching long in vain,To patriots grey, in bondage nursed,Flashed back their hope—"The Second FaneIn glory shall surpass the First!"
{32}
XXVI.The moon, ascending o'er a massOf tangled yew and sable pine,What sees she in yon watery glass?A tearful countenance divine.Far down, the winding hills between,A sea of vapour bends for miles,Unmoving. Here and there, dim-seen,The knolls above it rise like isles.The tall rock glimmers, spectre-white;The cedar in its sleep is stirred;At times the bat divides the night;At times the far-off flood is heard.Above, that shining blue!—below,That shining mist! O, not more pureMidwinter's landscape, robed in snow,And fringed with frosty garniture.The fragrance of the advancing year—That, that assures us it is May.Ah, tell me! in the heavenlier sphereMust all of earth have passed away?
{33}
XXVII.A dream came to me while the nightThinned off before the breath of morn,Which filled my soul with such delightAs hers who clasps a babe new-born.I saw—in countenance like a child—(Three years methought were hers, no more)That maid and mother undefiledThe Saviour of the world who bore.A nun-like veil was o'er her thrown;Her locks by fillet-bands made fast,Swiftly she climbed the steps of stone;—Into the Temple swiftly passed.Not once she paused her breath to take;Not once cast back a homeward look:—As longs the hart his thirst to slake,When noontide rages, in the brook,So longed that child to live for God;So pined, from earth's enthralments free,To bathe her wholly in the floodOf God's abysmal purity!Anna and Joachim from farTheir eyes on that white vision raised:And when, like caverned foam or starCloud-hid, she vanished, still they gazed.
{34}
XXVIII.Twelve years had passed, and, still a child,In brightness of the unblemished face,Once more she scaled those steps, and smiledOn Him who slept in her embrace.As in she passed there fell a calmAround: each bosom slowly roseLike the long branches of the palmWhen under them the south wind blows.The scribe forgot his wordy lore;The chanted psalm was heard far off;Hushed was the clash of golden ore;And hushed the Sadducean scoff.Type of the Christian Church! 'twas thineTo offer, first, to God that hour,Thy Son—the Sacrifice Divine,The Church's everlasting dower!Great Priestess! round that aureoled browWhich cloud or shadow ne'er had crossed,Began there not that hour to growA milder dawn of Pentecost?
{35}
XXIX.A veil is on the face of Truth:She prophesies behind a cloud;She ministers, in robes of ruth,Nocturnal rites, and disallowed.Eleusis hints, but dares not speak;The Orphic minstrelsies are dumb;Lost are the Sibyl's books, and weakEarth's olden faith in Him to come.But ah, but ah, that Orient Star!On straw-roofed shed and large-eyed kineIt flashes, guiding from afarThe Magians to the Child Divine.Gold, frankincense, and myrrh they bring—Love, Worship, Life severe and hard:Well pleased the symbol gifts the KingAccepts; and Truth is their reward.Rejoice, O Sion, for thy nightIs past: the Lord, thy Light, is born.The Gentiles shall behold thy light;The kings walk forward in thy morn.
{36}
XXX.The sunless day is sweeter yetThan when the golden sun-showers dancedOn bower new-glazed or rivulet;And Spring her banners first advanced.By wind unshaken hang in dreamThe wind-flowers o'er their dark green lair;And those thin poppy cups that seemNot bodied forms, but woven of air.Nor bird is heard; nor insect flits.A tear-drop glittering on her cheek,Composed but shadowed, Nature sits—Yon primrose not more staid and meek.The light of pensive hope unquenchedOn those pathetic brows and eyes,She sits, by silver dew-showers drenched,Through which the chill spring-odours rise.Was e'er on human countenance shedSo sweet a sadness? Once: no more.Then when his charge the Patriarch ledDream-warned to Egypt's distant shore.Down on her Infant Mary gazed;Her face the angels marked with awe;Yet 'neath its dimness, undisplaced,Looked forth that smile the Magians saw.
{37}
XXXI.As, flying Herod, southward wentThat Child and Mother, unamazed,Into Egyptian banishment,The weeders left their work, and gazed.The bright One spake to them and said,"When Herod's messengers demand,"Passed not the Infant, Herod's dread,—"Passed not the Infant through your land?"Then shall ye answer make, and say,"Behold, since first the corn was green"No little Infant passed this way;"No little Infant we have seen."Earth heard; nor missed the Maid's intent—As on the Flower of Eden passedWith Eden swiftness up she sentA sun-browned harvest ripening fast.By simplest words and sinless wheatThe messengers rode back beguiled;And by that truthfullest deceitWhich saved the little new-born Child!
{38}
{39}
{40}
{41}
I.As every change of April skyIs imaged in a placid brook,Her meditative memoryMirrored His every deed and look.As suns through summer ether rolledMature each growth the spring has wrought,So Love's strong day-star turned to goldHer harvests of quiescent thought.Her soul was as a vase, and shoneTranslucent to an inner ray;Her Maker's finger wrote thereonA mystic Bible new each day.Deep Heart! In all His sevenfold mightThe Paraclete with thee abode;And, sacramented there in light,Bore witness of the things of God.
{42}
II.Rejoice, O Earth, thy crown is won!Rejoice, rejoice, ye heavenly host!And thou, the Mother of the Son,Rejoice the first; rejoice the most!Who captive led captivity—From Hades' void circumferenceWho led the Patriarch Band on high,There rules, and sends us graces thence.Rejoice, glad Earth, o'er winter's graveWith altars wreathed and clarions blown;And thou, the Race Redeemed, outbraveThe rites of nature with thine own!Rejoice, O Mary! thou that longDidst lean thy breast upon the sword—Sad nightingale, the Spirit's songThat sang'st all night! He reigns, restored!Rejoice! He goes, the ParacleteTo send! Rejoice! He reigns on high!The sword lies broken at thy feet—His triumph is thy victory!
{43}
III.I take this reed—I know the handThat wields it must ere long be dust—And write, upon the fleeting sandEach wind can shake, the words, "I trust."And if that sand one day was stoneAnd stood in courses near the sky,For towers by earthquake overthrown,Or mouldering piecemeal, what care I?Things earthly perish: life to deathAnd death to life in turn succeeds.The spirit never perisheth:The chrysalis its Psyche breeds.True life alone is that which soarsTo Him who triumphed o'er the grave:With Him, on life's eternal shores,I trust one day a part to have.Ah, hark! above the springing cornThat chime; in every breeze it swells!Ye bells that wake the Ascension morn,Ye give us back our Paschal bells!
{44}
IV.O thou that rodest up the skies,Thy task fulfilled, on steeds of fire,—That somewhere, sealed from mortal eyes,Some air immortal dost respire!Thou that in heavenly beams enshrined,In quiet lulled of soul and flesh,With one great thought of God thy mindDost everlastingly refresh!Where art thou? age succeeds to age;Thou dost not hear their fret and jar:With thy celestial hermitageSuccessive winters wage not war.Still as a corse with field-flowers strewnThou liest; on God thine eyes are bent:And the fire-breathing stars aloneLook in upon thy cloudy tent.Behold, there is a debt to pay!Like Enoch, hid thou art on high:But both shall back return one day,To gaze once more on earth, and die.
{45}
V.Stronger and steadier every hourThe pulses of the season's glee,As toward her zenith climbs that PowerWhich rules the purple revelry.Trees, that from winter's grey eclipseOf late but pushed their topmost plume,Or felt with green-touched finger-tipsFor spring, their perfect robes assume.Like one that reads, not one that spells,The unvarying rivulet onward runs:And bird to bird, from leafier cells,Sends forth more leisurely response.Through the gorse covert bounds the deer:—The gorse, whose latest splendours wonMake all the fulgent wolds appearBright as the pastures of the sun.A balmier zephyr curls the wave;More purple flames o'er ocean dance;And the white breaker by the caveFalls with more cadenced resonance;While, vague no more, the mountains standWith quivering line or hazy hue;But drawn with finer, firmer hand,And settling into deeper blue.
{46}
VI.Not in Himself the Eternal WordLay hid upon creation's day:His Loveliness abroad He pouredOn all the worlds; and pours for aye.Not in Himself the Incarnate Son,In whom Man's race is born again,His glory hides. The victory won,He rose to send His "Gifts on Men."In sacraments—His dread behests;In Providence; in granted prayer;Before the time He manifestsHis glory, far as man may bear.He shines not from a vault of gloom;The horizon vast His splendour paints:Both heaven and earth His beams illume;His light is glorious in His saints.{47}He shines upon His Church—that MoonWho, in the watches of the night,Transmits to man the entrusted boon;A sister orb of sacred light.And thou, pure mirror of His grace!—As sun reflected in a sea—So, Mary, feeblest eyes the faceOf Him thou lovest discern in thee.
{48}
VII.Not for herself does Mary holdAmong the saints that queenly throne,Her seat predestined from of old;But for the brethren of her Son.Pure thoughts that make to God their quest,With her find footing o'er the clouds;Like those sea-crossing birds that restA moment on the sighing shrouds.In her our hearts, no longer nursedOn dust, for spiritual beauty yearn;From her our instincts, as at first,An upward gravitation learn.Her distance makes her not remote:For in true love's supernal sphereNo more round self the affections float—More near to God, to man more near.In her, the weary warfare past,The port attained, the exile o'er,We see the Church's barque at lastClose-anchored on the eternal shore!
{49}
VIII.Eternal Beauty, ere the spheresHad rolled from out the gulfs of night,Sparkled, through all the unnumbered years,Before the Eternal Father's sight.Like objects seen by Man in dream,Or landscape glassed on morning mist,Before His eyes it hung—a gleamFlashed from the eternal Thought of Christ.It stood the Archetype sublimeOf that fair world of finite thingsWhich, in the bands of Space and Time,Creation's glittering verge enrings.Star-like within the depths sereneOf that still vision, Mary, thouWith Him, thy Son, of God wert seenMillenniums ere the lucid brow{50}Of Eye o'er Eden founts had bent,—Millenniums ere that second FairWith dust the hopes of man had blent,And stained the brightness once so fair.Elect of Creatures! Man in theeBeholds that primal Beauty yet,—Sees all that Man was formed to be,—Sees all that Man can ne'er forget!{51}IX.Three worlds there are:—the first of Sense—That sensuous earth which round us lies;The next of Faith's Intelligence;The third of Glory, in the skies.The first is palpable, but base;The second heavenly, but obscure;The third is star-like in the face—But ah! remote that world as pure!Yet, glancing through our misty clime,Some sparkles from that loftier sphereMake way to earth;—then most what timeThe annual spring-flowers re-appear.Amid the coarser needs of earthAll shapes of brightness, what are theyBut wanderers, exiled from their birth,Or pledges of a happier day?Yea, what is Beauty, judged aright,But some surpassing, transient gleam;Some smile from heaven, in waves of light,Rippling o'er life's distempered dream?Or broken memories of that blissWhich rushed through first-born Nature's bloodWhen He who ever was, and is,Looked down, and saw that all was good?{52}X.Alas! not only loveliest eyes,And brows with lordliest lustre bright,But Nature's self—her woods and skies—The credulous heart can cheat or blight.And why? Because the sin of manTwixt Fair and Good has made divorce;And stained, since Evil first began,That stream so heavenly at its source.O perishable vales and groves!Your master was not made for you;Ye are but creatures: human lovesAre to the great Creator due.And yet, through Nature's symbols dim,There are with keener sight that pierceThe outward husk, and reach to HimWhose garment is the universe.For this to earth the Saviour cameIn flesh; in part for this He died;That man might have, in soul and frame,No faculty unsanctified.That Fancy's self—so prompt to leadThrough paths disastrous or defiled—Upon the Tree of Life might feed;And Sense with Soul be reconciled.
{53}
XI.The fancy of an age gone by,When Fancy's self to earth declined,Still thirsting for Divinity,Yet still, through sense, to Godhead blind,Poor mimic of that Truth of old,The patriarchs' hope—a faith revealed—Compressed its God in mortal mould,The prisoner of Creation's field.Nature and Nature's Lord were one!Then countless gods from cloud and streamGlanced forth; from sea, and moon, and sun:So ran the pantheistic dream.And thus the All-Holy, thus the All-True,The One Supreme, the Good, the Just,Like mist was scattered, lost like dew,And vanished in the wayside dust.{54}Mary! through thee the idols fell:When He the nations longed for [Footnote 1] came—True God yet Man—with man to dwell,The phantoms hid their heads for shame.[Footnote 1: "The Desire of the Nations."]His place or thine removed, ere longThe bards would push the sects aside;And lifted by the might of songOlympus stand re-edified.
{55}
XII.A broken gleam on wave and flower—A music that in utterance dies—O Poets, and O Men! what moreIs all that Beauty which ye prize?And ah! how oft Corruption worksThrough that brief Beauty's force or wile!How oft a gloom eternal lurksBeneath an evanescent smile!But thou, serene and smiling lightOf every grace redeemed from Sense,In thee all harmonies uniteThat charm a pure Intelligence.Whatever teaches mind or heartTo God by loveliest types to mount,Mary, is thine. Of each true ArtThe parent art thou, and the fount.{56}Those pictures, fair as moon or star,The ages dear to Faith brought forth,Formed but the illumined calendarOf her, that Church which knows thy worth.Not less doth Nature teach through theeThat mystery hid in hues and lines:Who loves thee not hath lost the keyTo all her sanctuaries and shrines.
{57}
XIII.Shine out, O Star, and sing the praiseOf that unrisen Sun whose glowThus feeds thee with thine earlier rays—The secret of thy song we know.Thou sing'st that Sun of Righteousness,Sole light of this benighted globe,Whose beams, reflected, dressed and dressHis Mother in her shining robe.Pale Lily, pearled around with dew,Lift high that heaven-illumined vase,And sing the glories ever newOf her, God's chalice, "full of grace."Cerulean Ocean, fringed with white,That wear'st her colours evermore,In all thy pureness, all thy might,Resound her name from shore to shore.That fringe of foam, when drops the sunTo-night, a sanguine stain shall wear:—Thus Mary's heart had strength, alone,The passion of her Lord to share.
{58}
XIV.The night through yonder cloudy cleft,With many a lingering last regard,Withdraws—but slowly—and hath leftHer mantle on the dewy sward.The lawns with silver dews are strewn;The winds lie hushed in cave and tree;Nor stirs a flower, save one aloneThat bends beneath the earliest bee.Peace over all the garden broods;Pathetic sweets the thickets throng;Like breath the vapour o'er the woodsAscends—dim woods without a song:Or hangs, a shining, fleece-like massO'er half yon lake that winds afarAmong the forests, still as glass,The mirror of that Morning Star{59}Which, halfway wandering from the sky,Amid the rose of morn delaysAnd (large and less alternately)Bends down a lustrous, tearful gaze.Mother and home of spirits blest!Bright gate of Heaven and golden bower!Thy best of blessings, love and rest,Depart not till on earth thou shower!{60}XV.If sense of Man's unworthinessWith Nature's blameless looks at strife,Should wake with wakening May, and pressNew-born contentment out of life:If thoughts of sable breed and blindShould stamp upon the springing flower,Or blacker memories haunt the mindAs ravens haunt the ruined tower:—O then how sweet in heart to breatheThose pure Judean gales once more;From Bethlehem's crib to NazarethIn heart to tread that Syrian shore!To watch that star-like Infant bringTo one of soul as clear and whiteMay-lilies, fresh from Siloa's spring,Or Passion-flower with May-dews bright!To follow, earlier yet, the feetOf her the "hilly land" who trodWith true love's haste, intent to greetThat aged saint beloved of God.Before her, like a stream let loose,The long vale's flowerage, winding, ran:Nature resumed her Eden use;And Earth was reconciled with Man.
{61}
XVI.Whate'er is floral on the earthTo thee, O Flower, of right belongs;Whate'er is musical in mirth,Whate'er is jubilant in songs.Childhood and springtide never ceaseFor him thy freshness keeps from stain:Dew-drenched for him, like Gideon's fleece,The dusty paths of life remain.Spirit of Brightness and of Bliss!Thou threaten'st none! A sinless lure,Thy fragrance and thy gladsomenessDraw on to Christ; to Christ secure.Hope, Hope is Strength! That joy of thineTo us is Glory's earliest ray!Through Faith's dim air, O star benign,Look down, and light our onward way!
{62}
XVII.I left at morn that blissful shoreO'er which the fruit-bloom fluttered free;And sailed the wildering waters o'er,Till sunset streaked with blood the sea.My sleep the hoarse sea-thunders broke,And sudden chill. Their feet foam-hid,Huge cliffs leaned out, through vapour-smoke,Like tower, and tomb, and pyramid.In the black shadow, ghostly whiteThe breaker raced o'er foaming shoals:From caverns of eternal nightCame wailings, as of suffering souls.Sudden, through clearing mists, the starOf ocean o'er the billow rose:Down dropped the elemental war;Tormented chaos found repose.{63}Star of the ocean! dear art thou,Ah! not to earth and heaven alone:The suffering Church, when shines thy browUpon her penance, stays her moan.The Holy Souls draw in their breath;The sea of anguish rests in peace;And, from beyond the gates of death,Up swell the anthems of release.{64}XVIII.Blossom for ever, blossoming Rod!Thou did'st not blossom once to die:That Life which, issuing forth from God,Thy life enkindled, runs not dry.Without a root in sin-stained earth,'Twas thine to bud Salvation's flower.No single soul the Church brings forthBut blooms from thee and is thy dower.Rejoice, O Eve! thy promise waned;Transgression nipt thy flower with frostBut, lo! a mother man hath gainedHolier than she in Eden lost.
{65}
XIX.While all the breathless woods aloofLie hush'd in noontide's deep repose,That dove, sun-warmed on yonder roof,With what a grave content she coos!One note for her! Deep streams run smoothThe ecstatic song of transience tells.O what a depth of loving truthIn thy divine contentment dwells!All day, with down-dropt lids, I sat,In trance; the present scene forgone.When Hesper rose, on Ararat,Methought, not English hills, he shone.Back to the ark, the waters o'er,The primal dove pursued her flight:A branch of that blest tree she boreWhich feeds the Church with holy light.I heard her rustling through the airWith sliding plume—no sound beside,Save the sea-sobbings everywhere,And sighs of that subsiding tide.
{66}
XX.She took the timbrel, as the tideRushed, refluent, up the Red Sea shore:"The Lord hath triumphed," she cried:Her song rang out above the roarOf lustral waves that, wall to wall,Fell back upon the host abhorred:Above the gloomy watery pall,As eagles soar, her anthem soared.Miriam, rejoice! a mightier farThan thou, one day shall sing with thee!Who rises, brightening like a starAbove yon bright baptismal sea?That harp which David touched who rearsHeaven-high above those waters wide?The Prophet-Queen! Throughout all yearsShe sings the Triumph of the Bride!
{67}
XXI.As pebbles flung for sport, that leapAlong the superficial tide,But enter not those chambers deepWherein the beds of pearl abide;Such those light minds that, grazing, spurnThe surface text of Sacred Lore,Yet ne'er its deeper sense discern,Its hails of mystery ne'er explore.Ah! not for such the unvalued gems;The priceless pearls of Truth they miss:Not theirs the starry diademsThat light God's temple in the abyss!Ah! not for such to gaze on herThat moves through all that empire pale;At every shrine doth minister,Yet never drops her vestal veil."The letter kills." Make pure thy Will;So shalt thou pierce the Text's disguise:Till then, revere the veil that stillHides truth from truth-affronting eyes.
{68}
XXII.A sweet exhaustion seems to holdIn spells of calm the shrouded eve:The gorse itself a beamless goldPuts forth:—yet nothing seems to grieve.The dewy chaplets hang on air;The willowy fields are silver-grey;Sad odours wander here and there;—And yet we feel that it is May.Relaxed, and with a broken flow,From dripping bowers low carols swellIn mellower, glassier tones, as thoughThey mounted through a bubbling well.The crimson orchis scarce sustainsUpon its drenched and drooping spireThe burden of the warm soft rains;The purple hills grow nigh and nigher.{69}Nature, suspending lovely toils,On expectations lovelier broods,Listening, with lifted hand, while coilsThe flooded rivulet through the woods.She sees, drawn out in vision clear,A world with summer radiance drest,And all the glories of that yearWhich sleeps within her virgin breast.{70}XXIII.Still on the gracious work proceeds;—The good, great tidings preached anewYearly to green enfranchised meads,And fire-topped woodlands flushed with dew.Yon cavern's mouth we scarce can see;Yon rock in gathering bloom lies meshed;And all the wood-anatomyIn thickening leaves is over-fleshed.That hermit oak which frowned so longUpon the spring with barren spleen,Yields to the holy Siren's song,And bends above her goblet green.Young maples, late with gold embossed,—Lucidities of sun-pierced limes,No more surprise us—merged and lostLike prelude notes in deepening chimes.Disordered beauties and detachedDemand no more a separate place:The abrupt, the startling, the unmatched,Submit to graduated grace;While upward from the ocean's margeThe year ascends with statelier treadTo where the sun his golden targeFinds, setting, on yon mountain's head.
{71}
XXIV.This scheme of worlds, which vast we call,Is only vast compared with man:Compared with God, the One yet All,Its greatness dwindles to a span.A Lily with its isles of budsAsleep on some unmeasured sea:—O God, the starry multitudes,What are they more than this to Thee?Yet girt by Nature's petty paleEach tenant holds the place assignedTo each in Being's awful scale:—The last of creatures leaves behindThe abyss of nothingness: the firstInto the abyss of Godhead peers;Waiting that vision which shall burstIn glory on the eternal years.{72}Tower of our Hope! through thee we climbFinite creation's topmost stair;Through thee from Sion's height sublimeTowards God we gaze through purer air.Infinite distance still dividesCreated from Creative Power;But all which intercepts and hidesLies dwarfed by that surpassing Tower!{73}XXV.Who doubts that thou art finite? WhoIs ignorant that from Godhead's heightTo what is loftiest here belowThe interval is infinite?O Mary! with that smile thrice-blestUpon their petulance look down;—Their dull negation, cold protest—Thy smile will melt away their frown!Show them thy Son! That hour their heartWill beat and burn with love like thine;Grow large; and learn from thee that artWhich communes best with things divine.The man who grasps not what is bestIn creaturely existence, heIs narrowest in the brain; and leastCan grasp the thought of Deity.{74}XXVI.They seek not; or amiss they seek;—The cold slight heart and captious brain:—To Love alone those instincts speakWhose challenge never yet was vain.True Gate of Heaven! As light through glass,So He who never left the skyTo this low earth was pleased to passThrough thine unstained Virginity.Summed up in thee our hearts beholdThe glory of created things:—From His, thy Son's, corporeal mouldLooks forth the eternal King of Kings!{75}XXVII.A sudden sun-burst in the woods,But late sad Winter's palace dim!O'er quickening boughs and bursting budsPacific glories shoot and swim.As when some heart, grief-darkened long,Conclusive joy by force invades—So swift the new-born splendours throng;Such lustre swallows up the shades.The sun we see not; but his firesFrom stem to stem obliquely smite,Till all the forest aisle respiresThe golden-tongued and myriad light.The caverns blacken as their browsWith floral fire are fringed; but allYon sombre vault of meeting boughsTurns to a golden fleece its pall,As o'er it breeze-like music rolls.O Spring, thy limit-line is crossed!O Earth, some orb of singing SoulsBrings down to theethyPentecost!
{76}
XXVIII.Clear as those silver trumps of oldThat woke Judea's jubilee;Strong as the breeze of morning, rolledO'er answering woodlands from the sea,That matutinal anthem vastWhich winds, like sunrise, round the globe,Following the sunrise, far and fast,And trampling on his fiery robe.Once more the Pentecostal torchLights on the courses of the year:The "upper chamber" of the ChurchIs thrilled once more with joy and fear.Who lifts her brow from out the dust?Who fixes on a world restoredA gaze like Eve's, but more august?Who bends it heaven-ward on her Lord?{77}It is the Birthday of the Bride.The new begins; the ancient ends:From all the gates of Heaven flung wideThe promised Paraclete descends.He who o'er-shadowed Mary onceO'ershades Humanity to-day;And bids her fruitful prove in sonsCo-heritors with Christ for aye.
{78}
XXIX.The Form decreed of tree and flower,The shape susceptible of life,Without the infused vivific Power,Were but a slumber or a strife.He whom the plastic hand of GodHimself created out of earthRemained a statue and a clodTill spirit infused to life gave birth.So, till that hour, the Church. In ChristHer awful structure, nerve and bone,Though built, and shaped, and organised,Existed but in skeleton;Till down on that predestined frame,Complete through all its sacred mould,The Pentecostal Spirit came,—The self-same Spirit who of oldCreative o'er the waters moved.Thenceforth the Church, made One and Whole,Arose in Him, and lived, and loved—His Temple she; and He her Soul.
{79}
XXX.The towered City loves thee well,Strong Tower of David's House! In theeShe hails the unvanquished citadelThat frowns o'er Error's subject sea.With magic might that Tower repelsA host that breaks where foe is none,—No foe but statued Saints in cellsHigh-ranged, and smiling in the sun.There stands Augustin; Leo there;And Bernard, with a maiden faceLike John's; and, strong at once and fair,That Spirit-Pythian, Athanase.Upon thy star-surrounded heightGod's angel keepeth watch and ward;And sunrise flashes thence ere nightHath left dark street and dewy sward.
{80}
XXXI.What tenderest hand uprears on highThe standard of Incarnate God?Successive portents that denyHer Son, who tramples? She who trodOn Satan erst with starlike scorn!Ah! never Alp looked down through mistAs she, that whiter star of morn,Through every cloud that darkens Christ!Roll back the centuries:—who were thoseThat, age by age, their Lord denied?Their seats they set with Mary's foes:—They mocked the Mother as the Bride.Of such was Arius; and of suchHe whom the Ephesian Sentence felled, [Footnote 2]Her Title triumphed. At the touch [Footnote 3]Of Truth the insurgent rout was quelled.[Footnote 2: Nestorius.][Footnote 3: Dei-para.]Back, back the hosts of Hell were drivenAs forth that sevenfold thunder rolled:—And in the Church's mystic HeavenThere was great silence as of old.
{81}
{82}
{83}
I.In vain thine altars do they heapWith blooms of violated MayWho fail the words of Christ to keep;Thy Son who love not, nor obey.Their songs are as a serpent's hiss;Their praise a poniard's poisoned edge;Their offering taints, like Judas' kiss,Thy shrine; their vows are sacrilege.Sadly from such thy countenance turns:Thou canst not stretch thy Babe to such(Albeit for all thy pity yearns)As greet Him with a leper's touch.Who loveth thee must love thy Son.Weak Love grows strong thy smile beneath:But nothing comes from nothing; noneCan reap Love's harvest out of Death.